


Desert Madness

by Kimmimaru



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Madness, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Prostitution, Suicidal Thoughts, Theft, Touch-Starved, Underage Drinking, heavily implies, mid-kerberos mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimmimaru/pseuds/Kimmimaru
Summary: The madness comes like an assassin. It's steps are slow, barely heard. It inches closer. A dark shadow that presses against Keith's skin. In the darkness of the desert night he can't see it. He can't hear it over the sound of the wind blowing over loose sand. It's a quiet thing. Soft and slow. By the time he feels its hand on his shoulder, it's too late.
Relationships: Keith (Voltron)/Original Male Character(s), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	Desert Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Random one-shot since we're all (or should be) isolating. My country is in lockdown and I'm bored so have some angst and heed the tags. (was tagged as underage but remembered he's 18 at this point so not underage? Is that the age of consent in America? Where I live it's sixteen so I dunno)

The madness comes like an assassin. It's steps are slow, barely heard. It inches closer. A dark shadow that presses against Keith's skin. In the darkness of the desert night he can't see it. He can't hear it over the sound of the wind blowing over loose sand. It's a quiet thing. Soft and slow. By the time he feels its hand on his shoulder, it's too late.  
  
_Keith remembers standing before Iverson. His cadet uniform pressed and his boots polished. He drops his hand from the sharp salute and stands at parade rest when given the go ahead. There's a pit in his stomach. He's only ever called to Iverson's office if he's done something and he searches his memory but comes up empty handed. He swallows and waits. Iverson sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Cadet,” He begins, clearing his throat. The sun sits low on the horizon, shining through the windows and glinting off of the rim of an empty glass on Iverson's desk. Keith watches Iverson's fingers move towards a half-empty bottle of whiskey before pulling away again. “Keith...” The pit in Keith's stomach grows, Iverson never uses the cadets first names. Iverson finally lifts his eyes, his face is grim as he curls his hands on his desk. “As you know we had some...technical difficulties with communications from the Kerberos crew.”  
  
Keith nods jerkily. His hands are sweaty as he clenches them behind his back, “Yes sir,” He replies.  
  
“Well...” Iverson clears his throat again, looking away, “We lost communication a few weeks back. They should've landed on Kerberos by now but the last update had been just before descent...” Iverson lets out a long, slow shaky breath, “I'm sorry Keith but Shirogane is...he's dead.”  
  
Keith knows this feeling. The wash of almost-dizzyness. The tremble of his hands. The sweat at his temples. That gulf of emptiness is like an old friend. Keith's still for almost a full minute before he sucks in a sharp breath, “No.” He whispers. His lips are numb. His throat suddenly painfully dry. The gulf yawns wide, waiting to devour him.  
  
“We've already alerted their families,” Iverson continues like Keith's not falling to pieces before his eyes. “I wanted to tell you before we made the official announcement, I know you two were close.”  
  
Keith swallows. His throat clicks. “No.” He says it again, shaking his head in denial.  
  
“There's no way they could be alive up there, Keith. They're gone, I'm sorry kid.”  
  
Keith fixes him with a stare. “He's not dead.” He says sharply, “He...he can't be.” Almost begging.  
  
Iverson only looks at him, his own face pale and shadows lingering underneath his eyes, “I'm sorry. Really.” Slowly he rises, “I understand if you want to take some time, you'll be excused from classes for a while-”  
  
“No!” Keith shouts, suddenly breathless. His eyes burn but no tears fall. He can feel his heart hammering violently against his ribs. “St-Stop lying to me. How did he die? H-how-”  
  
“Cadet.” Iverson snaps, glaring at him, “We lost contact with them on descent, it's likely pilot error. This is...hard enough as it is and I understand you're hurt but you should go back to your dorm and-”  
  
“Pilot error?” Keith asks, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth. He swallows again, staring in horror at Iverson as he rounds the desk and approaches.  
  
“It's the only reason they'd just...up and disappear like that. Shirogane was the best pilot we had but he was still human and he was sick, Keith.”  
  
Keith sees Shiro's smile in his minds eye, the way it made his eyes crinkle. Iverson reaches out to perhaps put a comforting hand on him but Keith recoils. He hisses, slapping Iverson's hand away. “Don't touch me!” He gasps. His legs finally remember how to move and he falls back. His hands go to his hair and he shakes his head, “Shiro was...was better than that. He wouldn't...No. No I...you're lying to me.” He looks up, glaring at Iverson through his hair, “Something's going on. Tell me the god damn truth!”  
  
“It was pilot error-”  
  
Keith doesn't remember punching him. He only remembers people grabbing him, holding him back. He remembers someone cursing as he elbows them in the gut. It takes several men to subdue him and finally he goes lax in their arms. Iverson clutches at his face, wincing. He looks at Keith but rather than anger it's disappointment he sees in his face, “Get your stuff, Kogane. You're out of here.”_  
  
Returning to the desert shack was not a fully conscious choice on Keith's part. He had nowhere else to go now he was too old for the system. He had no home, no job, no qualifications. He was exactly where the people at the home had always told him he would be. He stared up at the dilapidated building, seeing the sagging porch, the dirty windows, the old tree out the back. He takes a shaky breath and moves forward. The wood creaks under his boots as he reaches out and brushes his fingers against the peeling door. He turns his head to see his father's old rocking chair. Without thinking he drops his pack and moves to it. It takes his weight surprisingly well as he slumps into it and stares out to the line of hills on the horizon. The sun begins to set, turning the world orange and Keith curls in on himself. He presses his hands to his eyes and shakes as he tries to hold back the tidal wave of emotion threatening to break through his well-built dam.  
  
When it gets too cold to remain outside Keith rises on numb legs and enters the shack.  
  
At first he busies himself attempting to remove the desert sand that has encroached inside. He sweeps, he washes sheets, he sets his mind to focus on menial chores. As he's clearing out his old childhood bedroom he sees something sticking out from underneath his bed. Keith frowns, dropping to his knees with a thud, he bends and peers into the darkness. On the floor is something rounded. He reaches out and pulls the object free, revealing a fat, stuffed purple hippo.  
  
“Po?” Keith whispers into the emptiness as he turns the toy around in his hands. It's dusty and has one ear missing, it's legs are little more than flaps of empty cloth. A tiny smile lifts the corner of Keith's mouth, “Hey there,” He says, drawing the stuffed toy close to his chest. He closes his eyes and sits there, memories rushing in to fill the silence.  
  
He sets Po on the poorly put together coffee table and continues his obsessive cleaning. At night he sleeps on the couch, Po clutched tightly in his arms. When he wakes up he takes some water and leaves the cabin to explore outside. He finds nothing interesting until he gets into the garage. Inside, hidden beneath a tarp is his father's old hover bike. Keith hesitates, remembering all his father's warnings about touching things he shouldn't before taking a breath and tearing the tarp free. The bike is a little rusty but otherwise in tact enough to function. With the door open Keith takes the bike outside and lifts his leg up and over. It settles with a creak and Keith's fingers tighten on the handles. He leans forward, eyes closed and waits a moment as he relives his hover bike lessons from Shiro. With a final sigh he starts the engine, it rumbles to life. Dusty, a little worse for wear but it works. Keith takes off into the desert, heading for the nearby city.  
  
He buys enough groceries to last him a while and heads right back to his little shack. After putting the food away he slumps back into the couch. The air is thick, almost too heavy. It seeps into his body, making his limbs feel leaden. It's almost as if the shack is waiting. The hush before the storm. Keith struggles, turning his head to the door way into the tiny kitchen. He almost sees the familiar silhouette of his father by the cooker. He blinks and the image fades. Keith lifts his arm and puts it over his eyes. Po watches him from the coffee table.  
  
Keith makes the shack somewhat liveable. The floors are as sand free as he can get them. There's food in the cupboards, there's clean sheets. He could use his father's room but it contains too many memories. It's a monument now. Frozen in time, clutching onto the dying remnants of the man who once occupied the space. Keith can't bring himself to even open the door so he leaves it. His own bed has become much too small for his lankier frame so he curls up on the creaking couch at night, piled with blankets and staving off the nightmares.  
  
Days pass Keith by. He loses track, unable to remember the date. He counts time by the passing of the sun overhead. He eats cold beans from the can and dried meats. He sits on the porch and watches the stars. He tries not to think too much. One day he finds an unopened bottle of whiskey, his dad's old favourite. Keith takes this and Po out to the porch and opens the bottle, tossing the cap to the floor. He stares out across the desert, way across the open space to the shelf of red rocks on the horizon. He takes slow, careful sips and rocks back and forth as darkness finally closes it's chilly fingers around him.  
  
Somewhere far off an owl hoots, a coyote howls. Insects chirp and Keith sucks in a lungful of dry air as the night time comes alive. Keith opens his eyes and glances sideways, he sees Po sitting on a nearby over turned crate, eyeing him. “Don't judge me.” He says, taking another swig right from the neck of the bottle, “It's not like I've never done this before.” Po says nothing, causing Keith to scoff. He looks down and plucks idly at the label, avoiding the hippo's wonky stare. He looks up at the stars as they scatter in the darkness far, far above. Keith watches a satellite pass by. He sucks in another lungful of air, breath trembling as it leaves his lips. He shivers, dragging a blanket around his shoulders.  
  
_“If you look over there-no, left a bit-yeah that's it! That's Gemini,” Shiro turns his head to look at him. They're both on their backs on a sun-warm rock as the stars sparkle and glitter above. Keith looks back from the stars to Shiro's face, he's close enough to touch, “Beautiful, right?” Shiro asks with a grin.  
  
Keith blinks, a little drunk on Shiro's smile, “Yeah. Beautiful.” He breathes before his brain can catch up to his mouth. He watches Shiro's cheeks darken as he returns his eyes to the sky, avoiding Keith's intense stare.  
  
_Keith opens his eyes and lifts an arm, rubbing at the liquid sliding down his cheek. He sniffs and shivers, drawing his knees closer to his chest. The bottle is nearly half empty now.  
  
“He's out there...somewhere.” Keith whispers to Po who looks on indifferently. “I...I _know_ he is. Iverson didn't believe me but...but he can't be dead. He can't be. You don't understand...no one does.” Keith lets the bottle drift from his lips, eyes on the horizon. “You can't leave me like this, Shiro.” His voice cracks but neither he nor Po acknowledge it, or the glistening tear that slides down his cheek.  
  
The day creeps in. Spreading crawling fingers of orange and gold across the living room floor. Keith watches the shadows grow, he stares across the room until the sun has fully risen before dragging himself from his make-shift bed and stumbling into the bathroom. He splashes water on his face with a gasp, freezing cold and stinging his skin. He avoids his own reflection in the tarnished mirror and stares down at the stained porcelain. His fingers are white as he clutches the sink, his nails jagged from the near-constant work he's been doing. He takes a shuddery breath before pushing himself away and turning to the shower. It whines and protests as he turns the lever but finally water springs free, splashing into the cracked basin beneath. Keith waits for it to warm as much as it can before stripping off his dusty clothes and stepping inside.  
  
He ruminates on his latest nightmare. The one that had woken him long before dawn and prevented him from getting back to sleep. A comet falls from the sky, trailing fire. It smashes into the ground and Keith feels the tremors beneath his feet. There's something foreboding about it. Something meaningful that he can't put his finger on. He shivers as he turns off the water and steps out, throwing a towel around his waist. He pushes aside the nightmare and tries to continue with his day.  
  
Soon, there's nothing left to clean. Keith takes to lying on the sofa, unable to move. He stares up at the cracked ceiling and traces the warping of the wood. He can't move. His thoughts sluggish and slow. His body feels stiff and ungainly. The day passes into night and Keith doesn't even listen to his own grumbling stomach. At some point he falls asleep.  
  
Day begins to blur into night. Keith feels like a zombie. He shuffles around his shack, drinking and eating irregularly. He searches but can't find any more hidden alcohol so he gives up. The wind outside hisses through dried grasses and dust. It almost sounds like a voice. It's soft, familiar. Like a warm embrace. Keith closes his eyes and listens, Po watches on from his place on the coffee table. The wind sings. It says his name.  
  
Keith's eyes snap open and he sits upright. It's dark out, the only light coming from the bloated moon above. He sucks in a breath through his teeth as he untangles himself from blankets and pushes greasy hair from his forehead.  
  
_Keith...  
  
_The sand and wind hiss, brushing against the wood of the house. Keith wraps his arms around himself, searching and searching.  
  
_Keith...  
  
_His eyes land on Po who watches him from his wonky black eyes. Keith shakes his head, rubbing at his tired, gritty eyes. “It's just your imagination.” He assures himself. The wind continues to blow but he stops hearing his name. Keith sighs and settles back down.  
  
Two nights later Keith gets drunk again. He buys a six pack from the city and returns. He lies, sprawled on the floor with several empty cans around him. The ceiling turns and sags above him. Po sits on his chest, rising and falling with each breath he takes. “One...two...three...” Keith counts under his breath, “...Seven...eight...” His foot shifts, almost dislodging Po from his perch. Keith pats his head, fingers shaking as he breathes and counts. “You're gonna...” He hiccups and giggles humourlessly, “You're gonna love this...Po.” He sits up, the hippo falling to the floor with a sad little plop. “Saw some guys in the grocery store...One of 'em...” Keith huffs a breath, fingers playing with Po's last remaining ear, “He looked like Shiro. I almost...almost said his name. Bu'...” Keith's voice cracks, he shakes his head but that causes the world to spin. He gasps, falling back down and closes his eyes, “He's up there somewhere. He's not dead, Po.” He mutters, fingers tightening on the toys body. “He can't be.” His voice drifts and everything falls quiet again.  
  
He stands outside his father's bedroom. Staring at the handle for a good long while before he reaches up to turn it. He pushes open the door and braces himself. Inside the room smells stale, of dust and emptiness. Keith looks to the big double bed, then to the side tables. The window lets in the sunlight as he steps into the room. He clutches Po in his hands, grip tight enough that a few seams burst open.  
  
_“Hey Keith, can't sleep?”  
  
_Keith closes his eyes. He holds Po close and breathes in a few deep breathes. “I'm ok. I'm...I'm ok.” He whispers, forcing his eyes open to step over the threshold.  
  
From somewhere behind him the floor creaks. Keith freezes for a split second before turning, “Pa?” He asks the empty house. He blinks and shakes his head, turning back into the room. “Stupid.” He mutters, moving further into the room. It's empty. Like the house. Keith moves to the bedside draws and opens them. Inside is a book. Keith picks it up in one shaking hand and looks at the cover; _Are we really alone? An exploration into the possibility of alien life in our universe._ The front reads. Keith shakes his head and puts the book back, fingers disturbing years old dust. He looks in the other draws, finding scraps of paper with his father's scrawled handwriting on them. A shopping list. An ancient receipt. He finds a worn photo, his father standing with several other men all grinning. They're dressed in plain black t-shirts and tan pants, a fire engine sits behind them. Keith's fingers tighten on the image before he lets that too fall back into the draw. He closes it with a little more force than necessary. The lamp topples off the side table and crashes to the floor.  
  
Keith doesn't remember what happens next but when he comes round his knuckles are bloody and the wall sports a new hole. He stands in the room, panting. Po lies at his feet. Keith gasps, stepping back, shaking as he bends and picks up the hippo. He backs away, turning as he leaves the room and slams the door shut. He goes into the living room and sets Po back in his place. He enters the kitchen, eyes wandering until they find a set of dusty old plates. Before Keith can think about what he's doing he's yanking them down from their shelf and throwing them across the room. They hit the wall and shatter, sending shards everywhere. Keith screams as he throws. A sharp pain lancing his throat but he can't stop. He throws and screams until there are no more plates. Afterwards he feels drained. Exhausted. He sinks to the floor, covering his head with his arms. His breath hitches. He chokes. Tears slide down his cheeks as he tears at his hair and buries his face in his knees.  
  
Everyone makes promises. Everyone lies. He's alone again.  
  
Keith's boot kicks at shattered pieces of plate as he stares across the room, unaware of the passage of time. He chews on his lip, ignoring the sharp pain as his tooth cuts into flesh. He licks away the blood, eyes moving slowly around the room. He feels heavy. Tired. So tired. He closes his eyes, tipping his head back.  
  
His dad had a gun. Keith wasn't allowed near it but his dad said that they needed it for protection. Keith remembers where it was kept and he manages to haul himself to his feet. He stumbles across the tiny kitchen and back into the living room. Po sits in his place, waiting. “You stay there,” Keith tells him, his voice cracked and raspy. He nods to the hippo and moves his way to a nearby cupboard. He yanks open the stiff draws and withdraws his father's gun. It's heavy in his hand. He's not the best with guns but he remembers his early Garrison training well enough. He moves back to the sofa and sits there, holding it. The metal is cold against his skin as he opens it and checks for bullets. It's an old fashioned weapon, his dad said he liked the way it felt better than blasters. Keith turns it over in his hands, noting how heavy it is. It's full. He closes the gun and weighs it in his hands. He feels numb. His mind churning with sluggish thoughts. Outside the wind calls his name in Shiro's voice. Keith blinks slowly, lifting the weapon to his head. He looks out across the room, memories of his father melding with Shiro's smile. He swallows, closing his eyes. The metal of the muzzle bites into his temple.  
  
His hands shake. He puts a tiny bit of pressure on the trigger.  
  
_“Keith, we're sorry. You can't stay here anymore. We can't help you.”  
  
“Oh, Keith? He's a bit of a discipline case.”  
  
“He's not worth the trouble, honestly.”  
  
“Kid has no communication skills, he's not gonna get far in life.”  
  
“He's gonna be dead on the streets the way he's going.”  
  
“He's so angry...”  
  
“We can't help you, Keith.”  
  
“We're sorry.”  
  
“I'm never gonna give up on you, but, most of all; you should never give up on yourself.”  
  
_The gun feels too heavy. Keith lets it slip from his grasp. It hits the floor with a thud and he doesn't have the energy to retrieve it. He stares at it as the shadows lengthen.  
  
He goes out the next day as soon as the sun crests the horizon. He takes his dad's old hoverbike and tucks Po into his jacket. He revs the engine and peels off into the desert. He speeds off in an unknown direction, taking corners with little regard to his safety. He grits his teeth, remembering Shiro's laughter.  
  
He drives for an unknown amount of time before he comes to a stop. He looks up at a wall of rock, sand blown into strange formations. He pushes up his goggles and pulls down the scarf he had covered his face with. The rocks look...odd. A tingle goes down Keith's spine and he pulls himself off the bike and walks across the dry scrub towards the rocks. He runs his fingers slowly over it, dislodging sand from crevices. Slowly he reveals a carving. He frowns, a chill going down his spine and causing him to shiver. “What's this?” He croaks at Po who offers no answer. He continues scrubbing away the sand and dirt collected into the grooves and reveals what looks like some kind of stylised lion head. The carving looks ancient. Keith digs in his pocket, removing his comms device. He opens it and takes a picture of the carving.  
  
He takes a short walk, keeping close to the rock face. His fingers trail across it, something pulling him further. He finds another image. The entire canyon is covered in these strange carvings. All of them depicting a lion. Keith has never heard of anything like this before so he takes more pictures until his stomach growls, reminding him he hasn't eaten. He shivers, taking one last look at the carvings before returning to his bike.  
  
He takes several visits to the canyon. He finds one of his father's old maps and spreads it across the table, marking each place he finds a lion carving. For days he does this until one day he realises he's run out of supplies. He pushes aside the sudden, desperate urge to keep looking around the canyon and forces himself to go out and get food.  
  
The supermarket is busy as he stands in line with his minimal groceries. He stares off into the middle distance, eyes glazed and it takes him a moment to realise that the cashier is calling to him. He jerks out of his day dream and sets his groceries down. The cashier gives him a funny little look before she scans the items through and tells him the price. Keith digs out his wallet and opens it, finding only a one dollar bill. “Oh...I...” He blinks, feeling his face flush with heat. His stomach tightens, “I'm...sorry but I don't...don't have enough.”  
  
The cashier rolls her eyes, chewing her gum. She dismisses him and turns to the customer behind. Keith backs away, hand shaking as he turns and leaves the shop. He stands outside, blinking in the sunlight, swaying slightly. He has no money. No money means no supplies. No food. The house only had water because it ran from a well built years before he was born. The generator needed gas, his bike needed fuel. Keith swallows and sinks slowly down the wall at his back. He covers his eyes with one hand and presses against his eyelids as his stomach rumbles unhappily. “Shit.” He mutters thickly, running both hands through his hair.  
  
“Hey, you there.”  
  
Keith sniffs, taking a moment before lifting his head and peering at the man who had spoken through his fringe, “Yeah?” He watches as the man drops a bag of his groceries at Keith's feet.  
  
“You look like you could use some help, kid.” The man, handsome enough with a rash of fashionable stubble across his jaw, smiles down at him. His eyes are dark and he looks to be in his early forties.  
  
Keith looks away from the man to the paper bag by his feet, he sees a can of soup sticking from the top. He reaches forward before looking back up at the man, “What's the catch?” He asks. There's always something, Keith knows that you never get anything in life for free. There's a price to everything, even friendship.  
  
The man's smile widens, eyes crinkling, “Smart kid.” he says, “Come with me.”  
  
Keith frowns, staring at the food. If he doesn't eat he'll die. He swallows before rising and dusting off his jeans. He picks up the bag and follows the man around the corner of the store and behind a dumpster. The man halts, turning and setting aside his own shopping. He moves forward, taking Keith's own bag and setting it on the floor. Then he reaches out and takes Keith's chin in one hand, eyes moving down to his lips, “You got a pretty mouth,” He whispers hoarsely, “You wanna put it to some good use?”  
  
Keith closes his eyes, breathing growing shallow before he pushes the sudden surge of self disgust down and drops to his knees.  
  
“Good boy,” The man purrs and puts a hand in Keith's hair.  
  
The man leaves Keith with his groceries and a small amount of extra money. Keith coughs as the man walks away, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He can taste the man on his tongue long after he forces himself up and out of the filthy alley. Even as he gets on his bike and speeds off back into the desert the man's moans follow him like a ghost.  
  
Po looks at him from his spot on the table when he enters his house. Keith leans back against the wall, breathing deep, eyes squeezed shut. “Don't judge me.” He whispers, voice broken, throat sore. He wipes at his tongue with his sleeve and winces. “Just...shut the hell up.” He growls irritably, throwing a glare at the stuffed hippo. “You don't understand, I had to...” Keith trails off, staring down at his dusty boots. “I didn't have a choice.” He mutters under his breath before he pushes himself away from the door and moves to the kitchen. The hippo watches him, disappointment gleaming in it's black beady eyes.  
  
Keith puts the groceries away with shaking hands. He leaves the kitchen and goes back to the sofa where he collapses and closes his eyes. The feel of the man's fingers in his hair remains. He lifts his hand, running it through his hair, pressing fingers into his scalp. He shivers, muffling a moan into the crook of his arm. His face twists, bitter tears sting his eyes. Keith wasn't an overly touchy person but even the hands of a stranger felt good after so many weeks of loneliness. Keith opens his eyes and looks across the room at Po.  
  
The printed images of the lion carvings sit scattered across Keith's floor. He steps carefully around them as he digs a pin into the cork board. He looks at the map, frowning and scratches at his head. His hair hangs lank and greasy around his face. He can't remember the last time he bathed. He mutters under his breath, shaking his head as he ties a string to one pin and onto another, marking the canyon's trail. He reaches down and pins up the images in the order he found them. His fingers twitch as he steps back and admires his handy-work.  
  
Po watches him from the sofa, not saying a word as he works but Keith can feel his worried look boring into his back. “I don't understand,” He tells Po, his voice harsh and broken. He swallows and it feels like he's eaten glass. He winces and pushes hair from his forehead irritably. “There's...a pattern. They're leading somewhere...but I can't find anything.” Keith shifts, intending to reach down and pick up another pin but the world sways around him. The floor is rising, rising until he meets it head on. He collides with the floor with a loud thud that echoes through his head. Dust puffs from around him as the world turns grey around the edges and tunnels. Keith retches, heaving and swaying as he scrambles to a seated position. He gasps in air, saliva sitting heavy in the back of his throat. He ducks his head, breathing through his nose slowly. As the sensation passes he blinks away the encroaching darkness and realises he hasn't eaten for a very, very long time. He doesn't even know how long he's been at it, pinning things to his board, talking to Po. He trembles as he struggles inelegantly to his feet and stumbles towards the kitchen. He fills a cracked glass with water from the sink and takes slow sips, his hands shake almost too much to keep his grip on the glass. The urge to vomit finally passes and he sighs, closing his eyes.  
  
He manages to find some protein bars in the cupboard and returns to the living room. He sits down beside Po and starts to eat. When he's finished he stands, feeling better than he had and picks up Po. He returns to the canyon once more, following the carvings to the end and still finding nothing.  
  
When he returns home that night he curls up in bed and closes his eyes. He dreams of Shiro. Of his hand on his shoulder, of his soft, comforting voice. But...he can feel the memory of his face fading. Just like his father's had long ago. Shiro's a shadow now, a voice and a strong hand. Keith moans in his sleep, tossing and turning as the sky above him turns dark and he dreams of fire and comets and a feeling like coming home.  
  
There are days when he can't bring himself to move. Days of lying on the couch, drifting in and out of a strange state of half-sleep. He stares across the room at his map of madness and thinks about his dreams. When he goes into the city he begins to resort to more illegal methods of getting supplies. He steals. Wallets, food, things he can sell. He pays for food with his body. His mouth, his hands. There's always someone out there who wants a decent blow job and is willing to pay to come over a pretty face. Keith pushes down the shame. He shuts down the crawling sensation across his skin when he finds a strangers hands in his hair. He closes his eyes and does what he has to.  
  
He bathes sporadically. He eats whenever he happens to remember. He's dizzy, his tongue heavy and dry in his mouth. But he survives.  
  
When he manages to get enough money together to buy fuel for the generator and the bike he turns on his father's ancient satellite radio. It crackles and jumps, random voices coming through in garbled static. Keith sits on the floor, empty beer can by his hand as he fiddles with the dial until the static clears enough that he starts to hear voices. They're not perfectly clear, there's interference but...  
  
Keith frowns. He has no idea what they're saying but there's something...familiar about the language. A shiver crawls up his spine. He wraps his arms around himself and hangs his head, eyesight blurring as he stares at the floor between his boots. The voices talk. Harsh, grating. Keith listens and hears something being repeated. He rises on shaking legs, turning to his map and grabs a nearby pen, he writes the word down in the corner on a yellow post it note. Voltron. He scratches at his head, coughing briefly before he turns around, kicking his can across the room. His eye catches on his last note. It's corners curled from the number of times he's held it. He picks it up, hand shaking.  
  
_It's killing me when you're away._


End file.
